I dried myself on one of the huge white towels and put on clean socks and underwear; I hesitated for a moment over the choice of a shirt, then picked the brand new one I’d bought that morning in the Burlington Arcade. It was plain cream silk and with it I could wear the rather loud Charvet tie I’d bought myself in Paris last year. Susan always made a minor scene when I wore it; so I didn’t wear it in Warley. But I wasn’t in Warley now and I didn’t want to think of Susan; and the tie had cost me nearly two thousand francs. And I was going to a party at an actress’s flat.

I didn’t feel married, I didn’t feel an employee; in that warm room with the wall to wall beige carpet and heavy curtains I threw off my Warley identity. There were no responsibilities in this room, no worries, no sound except my own breathing. The day’s work was over and I was free in London. In other hotels at this hour I’d always found myself thinking of Warley, overcome by nostalgia but now there was no nostalgia. I’d pulled the deal off – there was no arguing with my instincts – and Warley had ceased to exist.

One of these days I’d have a suite here, one of these days I’d be so big that old bastards like Tiffield wouldn’t dare keep me on the hook.

I went over to my dressing-table and rubbed my face with pre-electric-shave lotion. It seemed to smell different here; I didn’t feel self-conscious about using it, as I did in Warley. I unpacked my electric razor; whilst I was shaving I’d order a drink. And I’d phone Jean. I smiled at myself in the mirror. I’m just confirming your invitation, darling. I didn’t want to burst in on you all unexpected-like. . . . Yes, I’m phoning from London, surprise, surprise. The Savoy. Not really, I’m in the peasant’s quarter, just one little room. . . .

Then my smile stopped. I wasn’t taking part in a drawing-room comedy and I knew, alone with the beige carpet and heavy curtains and smell of Old Spice, just what I intended to do with Jean.

4

Night was falling as I left the Savoy, the rain had stopped, leaving the air moist and heavy, brassy on the tongue; it seemed to hold sounds – footsteps, voices, the swish of car tyres – long after it should have let them go. But it was fresh air of a kind, it hadn’t been conditioned; I was outside, I was walking, I was alone, I’d just had a shower and I was clean from top to toe. One bath a week it had been once, on Saturday, the big night; and no one had brought me a large Scotch-on-the rocks either. I stopped to look at the Savoy Taylors’ window; suddenly I realized that I had all the clothes I wanted.

I walked on in the direction of Charing Cross Road, feeling better with every step. I turned up St. Martin’s Lane and went past the New Theatre and then stopped at the British and Colon­ial showrooms to look at a pink Thunderbird. And then there was something else you couldn’t afford – so you worked still harder. . . .